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purple haze the sun has set, A tuft of palms, a Minaret, Rise clear against the sky. The silence of the scented air Stirs to a sense of evening prayer At the Muezzin's cry.

What care have I, that yesterday I led thee as a slave away From Maroc's market-place? Are we not all the slaves of love? The very stars that wheel above Are bound by time and space!

I struck the fetters from thy hands Only to forge thee stronger bands; Leastways, 'twas my desire To hold thy captive soul to me, Even as mine is chained to thee, By links of passionate fire.

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